Class 
Book, 




A ^,^.'* 



J \ w IS 



Copyright 1J?___12LI£). 



COFffilGHT DEPOSm 



STAR GLINTS 



COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY 
CARL WACHTER 




From a raiiiting by Florence J. Bach 



Star Glints 



by 



Carl Wachter 



Buffalo, N. Y. 

John F. Grabau — Art Bookbinding Studio 
1917 



Of this edition there have been printed seven , 
hundred copies, and the type distributed. jJO 



This copy is Number 



X vV^ 



/? 



NOV -51917 



0CI.;U77'J78 

In-'. 



To 
My Wife 



Contents 



The Astronomer 

My Mansion 

The World Builder 

A Word From Plato 

Flower Wisdom 

The Feather 

The Happy Man 

The Convent of My Heart 

A Portrait 

The Unpainted Picture 

Man-Soul and Clay 

Castles in the Air 

To a Girl Who Loves Fairies 

The Joy of Life 

Creation 

God's Centre 

I Know These Faces 

The Deathless Dream 

Love's Lamp 

Sing Me Thy Sweetest Song 

Shakespeare's Return 

Woman's Answer 

The Three Angles 

To a Flower Blooming on the Battlefield of 
France 



r 



The Astronomer 

AM a great astronomer; 

I find a new star every night; 
And, 'tis a wondrous mystery, 
Each changes color to my sight. 



If I could live a million years. 
And gaze above at close of day, 

I'd see a sparkling diadem. 

Where every precious jewel lay. 



My Mansion 

I DO not know where I shall be, 
When I pass out from this life's 
shore; 
I only know that I shall dwell, 

Where once my spirit dwelt before. 
'Mid radiant planet's glorious light 
My mansion-in-the-sky may rest. 
I do not know. My Father builds 

The home that for His child seems 
best. 

My loving Father watches all 
My child-behavior from afar, 

And builds my mansion day by day 
Upon the brow of some bright star. 

The moments of my life's brief span, 

As deeds and thoughts, come to His 
hands; 

Of these is fashioned at His will 

My future home by angel-bands. 

I do not know where I shall be, 

When I pass out from this life's 
shore; 

I only know my mansion grows, 



Like my soul's life, by more and 
more. 
Oh! may I count the moments dear, 

That flit so swiftly to their close. 
Yet reach the palace, where my soul 

Shall dwell in infinite repose. 



The World Builder 

I AM a dreamer and I love my 
dreams ; 
I build a world about me day by 
day; 
It rises forth to meet my questioning 
gaze 
More real far than unsubstantial 
clay. 

I make no shame in dreaming of a 
dream, 
A dream is man*s best tribute to his 
God; 
Man thinks in terms of brutish force 
and fear, 
By dreams he lifts his spirit from 
the clod. 

I dig not in the dull, dark, senseless 
earth 
To find the secrets God holds in His 
heart; 
Man cannot patch together cosmic good 
Of stuff gained by slow grubbing, 
part by part. 



In the fair region where the dreamer 
lives, 
He sees immortal beauties with 
closed eyes; 
He hears God speak to him through 
sense-shut ears, 
Who bids him forsake knowledge 
and grow wise. 

I am a dreamer and I love my dreams; 

I build a world about me day by day; 

It rises forth to meet my questioning 

gaze 

More real far than unsubstantial 

clay. 



A Word From Plato 



I ASKED my Plato, friendly, mystic- 
wise, 

To tell me of his sojourn in the skies; 

For God's day converse with the eon 
great 

Has mellowed goldenly his regal state. 

Rare thoughts, far-reaching through 
All-Wisdom's brow, 

Have searched the rim of Plato's cir- 
cle now; 

And he who read, when cased in cloud- 
ed clay. 

The far brought messages from Sons of 
Day, 

Might scatter from his starly garnered 
mind 

Thoughts far outstretching low earth- 
dweller's kind. 

My Plato paused, his wandering tongue 

to shape. 
And his pure thought in language mist 

to drape: 
"Then first, my friend, attune thy 

sense-dimmed ear 
To list the thoughts of God-men, silver 

clear; 
The language of dull earth I scarce 

recall. 



And many things I cannot say at all. 
To speak in man-terms, I could not 

perceive 
The newer life, nor yet could I be- 
lieve; 
For, while I listened to God's rhythmic 

jet, 
I had not learned great Heaven's law, 

"Forget!" 
Nor knew I that to find God I must part 
From thought-dulled paths by opening 

wide my heart. 
When still 'mid earth-mists I had 

leaped from clod 
And tried to link my life to life with 

God. 
All man's pure thinking I defined as 

"real," 
Meaning by that what some men call 

the "ideal;" 
But now I know that thinking is for 

earth. 
And cosmic impulse in Pure Love has 

birth. 

"A thousand times I found I had to die 
To live again in realms more glorious 

high; 
Celestial paradox is found in this. 
We starve ourselves to feed on Heav- 
en's bliss; 



We give, and giving, double what we 

own — 
In common with all star-men, not 

alone. 
We close our eyes to see, our ears to 

hear; 
Things far away are always very near; 
What seems to mount in circling path 

to sky, 
We know is slow descending from on 

high; 
And all the ugly evil of earths race 
Is good vibrating at too slow a pace. 
The time will come, when earth will 

whirl so fast, 
That all the first things will become 

the last; 
And Love, high seated on her mighty 

throne. 
Will rule the singing cosmic fields 

alone. 

"But I must go. E'en now I hear a 

voice, 
Whose love-borne accents make my 

heart rejoice. 
My Socrates now bids me come and 

teach 
My lesson to the souls within our 

reach. 
Who come in throngs to learn each 

golden thought, 



That by a gift in kind of God is bought; 
And, till our Aristotle's hour arrive, 
I keep the flames of Wisdom's lamp 

alive. 
Farewell. And let me say, in language 

terse. 
Nothing is static in the universe." 



Flower Wisdom 

^^ Y HY do flowers nod their heads, 
\a/ When I walk among their 
feeds? 
Are they speaking wisdom then 
To a clay-bound son of men? 

Why do flowers close their eyes, 
When the star-birds flit the skies? 
Love they not the beauties fair 
Of the wondrous, moonlit air? 

Or close they eyes to rest their stems, 
While their souls seek brighter gems. 
Roaming o'er the fields of night, 
Till the Sun-God comes in sight. 

In the morn, when bursting rose 
On the brow of heaven grows. 
Open wide are flower's eyes, 
Laughing back to smiling skies. 

Can it be, then, that the flower 
Lives lives suited to the hour? 
Seeks out Heaven's fields at night, 
Comes to earth to live in light? 



Would that I, sweet flower, could know 
The fair wisdom thou dost show; 
Spending night in starry heaven, 
Seeking earth, when day is given. 

Little flower, sweet and wise. 
Tell us whence thy star thoughts rise? 
How, from sojourn 'neath the ground. 
Thou hast shaped thy life profound? 

Why do flowers nod their heads. 
When I walk among their beds? 
Are they speaking wisdom then 
To a clay-bound son of men? 



The Feather 

I FOUND a feather on the ground, 
Some bird had dropped in flying 
past. 
You say, "This bears no thought pro- 
found ; 
'Twas not the first, nor yet the last." 
I say this feather brought to me 
A message from eternity. 

For I was sick and sad at heart, 

My thoughts were fastened to a clod ; 

But sight of feather thrilled my soul; 
I walked as by the hand of God. 

It was to me the mystic sign 

That Heaven has no border line. 

For, as I at the feather gazed, 

I saw blue skies and heard the song 

Of hosts of brightly glinting forms, 
That to the courts of God belong. 

I knew with melody divine 

How earth and heaven intertwine. 

A careless feather fluttered down 
From breast of careless flying bird. 

Yet I beheld a wondrous sight, 
And sweet aerial music heard. 

I say this feather brought to me 

A message from eternity. 



The Happy Man 

E was the happiest little man 
That ever you, did see; 
His face was sunny as a flower's, 
And he stood just five feet three. 



n 



Said I to him, "You're happy man! 

As happy as can be! 
Now tell me what the secret is; 

You're secret tell to me." 

He said, "I always send good thoughts. 
Good thoughts return to me; 

I bless all people all the time, 
I bless them all," said he. 

"God bless you, ma'm! God bless you, 
sir! 

God bless you, babe!' say I 

To all God's children, great and small, 

I meet in passing by. 

"I say it not so they can hear. 

But to myself speak I; 
And still I breathe my blessing 

On the lowly and the high. 



And so I am a happy man, 

A blessed man am I, 
For blessings spent so lavishly 

Upon each passerby." 

I went away a wiser man, 

A gladder man went I ; 
For, talking to the happy man, 

I knew his reason why; 

And silently to east and west 

I sent the happy cry, 

"God bless you, ma'm! God bless you, 
sir! 

God bless you, low and high!" 



The Convent of 
My Heart 

I'VE a convent in my heart, 
Which I enter every day. 
There at dawn and set of sun 
To my God I kneel and pray. 
Strangely sweet the matin bells 

Ring their music in my ear, 
Granting mystic grace divine, 
Driving from my soul all fear. 

At the golden close of day, 

Kneeling at my altar there, 
I can hear the vesper bells 

Gently ringing on the air. 
From the crowded world without. 

Morn and evening I depart, 
To the altar of my soul. 

In the convent of my heart. 



A Portrait 



*■ T OU paint my portrait fair, sir! 
{^ Do you see 

Such beauty in these features? 
Prank and free." 



"I paint the face which yours 

Begets in me. 
It's either you, or what you 

Ought to be." 



The Unpainted 
Picture 

I AM a picture Raphael never 
painted; 
He called me forth, conceived me in 
his mind. 
I wander through the galleries of na- 
tions 
To see if I my counterpart can find. 

I sometimes meet a glowing, heaven- 
lit artist, 
Nursing in eagerness a budding 
dream, 
And pause a moment, glancing o'er his 
shoulder. 
That he may catch the lustre of my 
gleam. 

My master, Raphael, lured my germ 
from hiding. 
And blew on me his genius-breath 
divine. 
I cannot die. I wait to charm earth's 
children 
Through painter, whose skill's 
beauty matches mine. 



Man-Soul and Clay 

EERE, Agnes, is my clay, and here 
are you, 
A model fairer than poor clay might 

prize. 
You marvel that I make a choice of 

this 
Dull stuff of earth to work my soul- 
pulse through. 

Well, here's your means — your canvas, 

unrelenting as a wall. 
Your pigments, mixed with art-craft, 

body forth 
A sunny April day, near forest-field. 
There is the road, which skirts the 

wooded ridge, 
.And here the brown fields, greened 

with grassy spots. 
What form and color lend, in stirring 

man 

To build within his soul fair beauty's 

dreams. 
Your picture gives. 'Tis wondrous 

strange; 

And lovely as 'tis strange, my Agnes 
dear. 

'Tis quite as if our God, when walking 
through the field. 



Had smiled a golden smile upon the 
scene, 

Which you with joyful view had caught 
in mind, 

And reproduced as nature, soul-il- 
lumed. 

But why do I love clay? See through 

this arch 
Our children, playing near the garden's 

edge. 
See, Edward with his one hand full of 

mud 
Is patting briskly with the other free. 
And Agnes, little Agnes, does the same. 
They're making mud-pies — v/orking 

out 
Of clay their own mind's image into 

clay again, 
bast winter near this spot there stood 

a man, 
A snow-piled double of their father's 

self. 
Three days their souls drew draughts 

of fragrant joy 
In gazing on their art's expressive 

form, 
And then the Sun, too warm in his 

embrace, 
Mixed with the oozing earth their man 

again. 



What haunting melodies this clay has 
brought 

Unto the portals of Oiese spell-taught 
ears! 

I hear the ocean waves roll o'er my 

head, 
As it once listened, fathom-deep above, 
Tiie awiul beating of the storm-moved 

wastes. 
This clay, perchance, has hatched the 

giant eggs 
Of monsters, that huge-cleave the seas 

no more. 

Its brother once was brick, sun-baked 
brick, 

Which Pharaoh's children caused the 
Israels make; 

And once upon it dropped a scalding 
tear, 

As Moses wept for his poor country's 
sake. 

Who knows but that it holds the mixld 
dust 

Of buried Babylon and of sea-washed 
Tyre, 

And grain by grain, had it a voice to 
speak, 

It might relate the story of our planet's 
long-heaved life. 



I hold within my hands our world epit- 
omized. 

See how I round it at the poles and 
belt! 

Look! Now I make a bed for water's 
slumber vast, 

And pile high mountains o'er great 
continents. 

Now grasp the skirts of yon far-skim- 
ming clouds, 

And wring me rain drops in this figured 
cup. 

These drops make oceans for my lit- 
tle world, 

And so it is complete. Not so. 
No flowering plants, nor towering, sky- 
kissed trees; 

No mighty temples, pointing spires to 
God; 

Nor does the race of men move o'er 
its mass. 

Decking its dornless plains with time- 
wrought arts. 

No, love! I cannot make the world 

complete; 
I have no breath divine to blow on it. 

Howe'er I strain to reproduce the 
thing, 



I cannot bring the mystery of life. 
I am not God. This clay remains but 
clay. 

And so, my dear, these hands will mix 

with clay, 
And strive to build a head fit for your 

soul; 
A temple fair for you to dwell within; 
A dream-gift of that temple fair, your 

own. 
The Agnes, who looks out from those 

dark eyes 
Is stuff of soul, which only God can 

build. 
I love to lure my singing mind to dream 
That I am building Agnes o'er again; 
I love her so, her clay-house and her 

soul. 
For all is sacred, which her being 

touched. 
I work in clay, a clay-created man. 
To image forth a goddess, clay-im- 
mured. 
And thus I reproduce the drama o'er. 
Of God and clay and man-soul for all 

time. 



Castles in the Air 

I AM calling, son! I*m calling!" 
Said my mother to her boy; 

"Come, my child! your luncheon's 
ready; 

Leave the plaything and the toy!" 
I was sitting at the window, 

Gazing forth with raptured stare 
At a sight of unknown beauty — 

My first castle in the air. 

Though I left the enchanting vision 
At my darling mother's call, 

I was owner of a palace. 
Master of a knightly hall. 

Soon I'd other beauteous structures, 

Twined with lakes and walks most 
fair. 

For I'd learned a magic secret, 

Could build castles in the air. 

Passed have years since first I saw it, 
Looming grandly to my sight, 

With its battlements and towers 
Gleaming forth in golden light; 

Yet today, though Time has brought 
me 



Many, many gifts most rare, 
There are none, which I would measure 
With my castles in the air. 

And humanity is rearing, 

Through the dust of sweaty days, 
A fair temple, where in freedom 

She may sing her hymn of praise; 
For amid this sordid earth-life. 

We have each a vision fair. 
And the race is slowly climbing 

To its castle in the air. 



To A Girl, Who 
Loves Fairies 



n 



ITTLE girl, and when you dream, 
Will you dream a dream for me? 



Many glorious sights I've seen, 

For I, too, in dreams indulge; 
Fairies whisper in my ear 

Secrets I must not divulge; 
Little girls are wondrous things. 

And their dreams must wondrous be ; 
So, my dearies, when you dream. 

Will you dream a dream for me? 

In the world where dreams are true 

I have many mansions fair; 
Mortal man has never seen 

What my dreaming eyes declare; 
But the ocean of your dreams 

Washes such a lovely lee, 
I must ask you when you dream. 

Just to dream a dream for me. 



To be real, little girl, 

Dreams must live where dreams are 
grown ; 

On dull earth you must not hope 
Fairy children e'er to own. 

So *mid love and pain and joy 
You shall dream on fervently; 

And, my dearie, when you dream, 
Dream a little dream for me. 



The Joy of Lif 



/^•^ HE joy of life is found within the 
\J soul, 

Not in the outward form of men 
or things; 
'Tis he alone can live complete and 
whole, 
Whose heart with music sweet with- 
in him sings. 

Man gets from all he seeks but what he 
gives; 
The opaque earth can nothing ren- 
der him 
But opaque gain. He only truly lives, 
Whose life is throbbing out to his 
soul's rim. 

Sensation ceases in the soul's pure love, 
And silence is the soul's most mov- 
ing sound. 
The sloping spheres in heav'nly blue 
above. 
With silent stir make music most 
profound. 



The soul of things is shown to him 
who sees, 
But not too far within doth shoot 
his gaze; 
Who feels the unseen form of things, 
that please 
The Timeless Master of Unnumbered 
Days. 

Then sing the joy of him with Heav'n 
within, 
With music's color in his own true 
self, 
Whose regal nature spurns the daz- 
zling sin. 
Nor deigns to stoop to gain of worth- 
less pelf. 

For joy of life is found within the 
soul. 
Not in the outward form of men or 
things; 
'Tis he alone can live complete and 
whole, 
Whose heart with music sweet with- 
in him sings. 



Creation 

^y^HE stuff of seeming lies about 
vJ^ The open gateway of our soul; 
We mix it with our joy and pain, 
And stamp it with eternity. 



God's Centre 



15 



HE prince of thinker's thoughts 
can never rise 



To God's far centre, golden-hung 
in skies; 

But e'en the humblest child has swung 
ajar 

The gates of heaven, by song, heart- 
flung afar. 



I Know These Faces 

^^^ HAT mean these faces that to 
\A/ nie are dear? 

I know them at a glance and 
they know me; 
I search my heart to speak the truth 
to theirs; 
I gaze within their smiling souls to 
see. 

I speak as telling of a truth half- 
guessed, 
As half-afraid my inmost thoughts 
to voice; 
And lo! with eager eyes they answer 
me, 
As if at words self-spoken they re- 
joice. 

How live we lives divinely set in tune, 
Nor guess each that the other lives 
at all; 
We meet one day; God whispers in our 
ear, 
And forth a thousand recollections 
fall. 



I know these faces and their message 
sweet; 
I know them at a glance and they 
know me; 
I search my heart to speak the truth 
to theirs; 
I gaze within their smiling souls to 
see. 



The Deathless Dream 

I OPEN wide the windows of my 
soul, 

And let the freshening breeze of 
love blow through; 
And, one by one, each window gains a 
face 
To greet my searching glance with 
joyous view. 

But in my heart of heart's there is a 
room, 
Whose single window opens to the 
skies; 
'Neath which I watch each moment of 
the day 
To match a face, that from my soul 
doth rise. 

And, when in golden frame I see that 
face, 
And thrill in gazing on its wondrous 
gleam, 
That day, its morrow, and all days be- 
yond 
Will pass in splendor of a deathless 
dream. 



Love's Lamp 

'J jr PAINFUL, quiet sadness fills my 
^^JL soul; 

The throbbing ecstacy of life is 
done; 
You came to me and lit the lamp of 
love; 
Its flaming light became my inner 
sun. 

You left me mid the love-lamp's ruddy 
gleams, 
And strayed to lands beyond our 
happy days; 
You came not back to feed my lamp 
again, 
When time had dulled the bright- 
ness of its rays. 

And so a quiet sadness fills my soul; 

The throbbing ecstacy of life is o'er; 
I live within the ebbing love-lamp's 
glow. 
And wait the blissful opening of a 
door. 



Sing Me Thy Sweetest 
Song 

^2*1^^ ^^ ^^y sweetest song, dear 

J^y heart, to-night! 

No martial strain can sate my thirst- 
ing ears! 

Forth to the battle will my spirit start. 
When morning calls me from thy 
love-shed tears. 

'Tis then thy love means courage in the 
fight; 

But sing thy sweetest song, dear heart, 
to-night! 

Sing me of roses 'neath a garden wall, 
Of wondrous beauty and of richest 
hue; 

And thou, a flower sweeter than them 
all. 
Breathing their perfume, sprinkled 
on the dew. 

Burst forth in song to match this love- 
liest sight! 

Oh! sing thy sweetest song, my love, 
to-night! 



Why doth the moon, arrayed in lovely 

light, 
Hide now her glory 'neath a modest 

cloud? 
Oh! 'tis because thy beauty is too 

bright! 
To shine as lesser orb she is too 

proud; 
She waits until thy presence fades from 

sight. 
Oh ! sing thy sweetest song, dear heart, 

to-night! 

Oh! wondrous rapture of this hour di- 
vine! 
Oh! blessed mortal, steeped in heav- 
en's bliss! 

Long may I drink of love's most pre- 
cious wine! 
Can silver-throated seraph equal 
this? 

To-morrow I must test the saber's 
might; 

Sing on! Sing on! Thy sweetest song 
to-night! 



Shakespeare's Return 

I MUSED on Shakespeare as I sat 
apart, 
The midnight stillness singing in 
my heart; 
A volume of his sonnets in my hand, 
A marble bust of him upon the stand, 
His pictured likeness hanging on the 

wall, 
And his great thoughts around suffus- 
ing all. 
At length I dimmed the lamp, the cur- 
tains spread. 
And gazed forth at the night above my 

head ; 
And as I gazed, among the stars so 
bright, 

I saw one twinkle with a pinkish light, 

When lo! it moved, and through the 
heavens sped. 

And drew toward earth in my direc- 
tion led. 

" *Tis strange," quoth I, "Can this, my 
sight, be true? 

A pink and moving star I never knew. 



With mannered haste it surges through 

the sky, 
Gaining in grandeur as it draws more 

nigh." 
It came to me. Said I, "What can it 

be?" 
It stopped. The bard of Avon looked 

at me. 
Looked from two eyes that glowed in 

heavenly blue 
From forth a face glistening with heav- 
en's dew. 
His hair, dark brown; his forehead, 

w^hite as snow; 
A golden chain 'neath purple cape did 

show. 
He spoke in voice as mellow as high 

June 
To me, who stood as in a waking swoon. 

"My son, your searching thoughts have 

reached the place, 
Where Shakespeare doth abide in 

Heaven's face, 
Who, high ensphered 'twixt Mercury 

and Mars, 
Hears moving planets sing their 

music'd bars. 
To blaze his history's your loyal intent. 



And tell how William's royal life was 
spent. 

My son, forbear! Myself am Shakes- 
peare's shade, 

From mortal bard to immortal spirit 
made. 

Three hundred years of wisdom's 
growth decree 

The story of my life should silent be. 

The volumned poems both best and 
most revealed; 

Bid all the private chat remain un- 
sealed. 

"To tell thee sadly, son, when Bess 
was queen. 

The greatest of all acting there was 
seen. 

Each actor then could issue forth his 
line 

With nice distinction and in voice di- 
vine. 

The art was then to hear much more 
than see. 

And music wedded thought to harmony. 

Now, when I visit in your tragic hall. 

My ears are stopped; my eyes must 
serve me all. 

Imagination labors all for naught, 

Where pictured fancy by the foot is 
bought. 



1 



"In dear old London, where I gained 

my fame, 
People knew when to praise, and when 

to blame. 
They liked to hear the lines well 

rounded out. 
And gazed in rapture at each smile and 

pout. 
My plays I penned to entertain the 

stage; 
I did not plan to fashion every age. 
I loved my plays. I love them still, I 

vow. 

They ranked supreme. They rank su- 
preme e'en now. 

Great Julius' tragic death 'neath Pom- 
pey's bust; 

King Lear, the victim of misplaced 
trust; 

Lady Macbeth, ambition's heartless 

tool ; 
The dreamer, Hamlet, slain in life's 

stern school; 

Great Katherine, in sorrow still a 
queen; 

Hermione, whose double ne'er was 

seen. 
I loved the Shylock play, wise Portia's 

part; 
Pair Rosalind, and Silvia's artless art; 



Nor in three hundred years could I for- 
get 

The deathless heauty of sweet Juliet; 

For buskin'd Greece with Sophoc' on 
the stage 

Has been replaced by dark Othello's 
rage. 

"What say my critics? 'Did Shakes- 
peare mean to say — ' 
'Should this be emphasized, or should 

we lay the stress on that?' 
*Let's study on his words. His chesse 

of thought is best shown by his 

curds.' 
When in dispute with the vast-heaving 

Ben — 
Ben Johnson mean I — it was always 

then 
That I concluded learning from dull 

books 
Was like sly maiden paint on comely 

looks. 
He'd spent his time in seasoning his 

mind, 
And every fact he searched for he could 

find, 
But all the springs of vital nature's 

thought 



Escaped this buyer, who too dearly 
bought. 

For, mark it well, 'tis royal nature's 
boast 

That there she gives the least, where 
least is most; 

And scholars rhymes of delving grub- 
ber's art 

Can never reach the secrets of the 
heart. 

If what 1 wrote — and Homer tells me 
so — 

Fills out the measure of earth's joy and 
woe, 

*Tis not, because I studied to be vast, 

But that from heart afire I drew my 
cast. 

And may I say, and say in saddest 
shrift, 

Cold reason's strength can ne'er light 
spirit lift. 

His bulky, awkward force must toil in 
vain 

To conjure fancy's beauty forth his 
brain ; 

But airy nothing sees and hears and 
starts 

To those, who speak and listen with 
their hearts. 



"I was a lover, when I trod the earth, 
A lover died, who loved love from his 

birth. 
The flowers I loved, which 'round sweet 

Avon grew; 
The sun I loved, whence flowers sus- 
tenance drew; 
The sky I loved, whence dropped the 

flowers down; 
The breeze I loved, which smiled on 

lover's frown. 
I loved the forest and the silent glade; 
I loved the stream, that v/andered in 

the shade; 
I loved the stars, that peeped to me 

each night; 
I loved the moon, that brightens hu- 
man sight. 
But most I loved mankind, the young, 

the old; 
The tender maid; the sturdy youth and 

bold; 
The gowned friar, and the laced dame; 
The obscure cobbler, and the knight 

of fame; 
I loved all life, whose warp of sordid 

woe 
With woof of joy wove beauty for a 

show. 



My heart beat fast. My fancy knew no 
rest. 

Celestial impulse surged within my 
breast. 

I felt the touch of spirit all around, 

And from the pebble drew a thought 
profound. 

The ocean's awful might no more re- 
vealed 

Than tiny birdlet's dainty bulk con- 
cealed. 

Write me no scholar, scientist nor sage, 

Write me the lover of my day and age; 

A lover both of nature and of man, 

And of great God, in whom all life be- 
gan." 

So saying, with a gentle glance serene, 
vanished 

The vision from the visioned scene. 
And yet the air was shining with the 
light 

By which his presence made my study 
bright. 



Woman's Answer 

d^f O you would ask of me, Man, 

J^? What is the meaning of Woman? 

What is my place in the swirl 

Of endless vibration, allcosmic? 

Am I plasmatic remain 

Of cellular form, undeveloped. 

Steeped through with error's false 

maze 
Of purposeless, uncentered longings? 

List to me, Man, while I tell 

Of the function and sphere of your 

Woman, 
Show you the path you must take 
To reach the true goal of creation. 
For in the Woman there lies 
The key to the timeless life-riddle, 
Which, still unsolved, laughs to scorn 
The Man-mind's proud power of per- 
ception. 

I am the soul of love's force. 

Mine are the treasures of spirit. 

I represent the God-heart, 

Which throbs through the aeon of 

ages. 
Back to first history's dawn. 
And forward forever, I'm Woman. 
I am the creative aim 
Of ultimate impulse, conserving. 



Mine is the sight of the veiled. 

Mine is sweet faith, taught of wisdom. 

Mine, without crucible's fume. 

Is what double-eyed scholar yet toils 

for. 
Virtue and goodness are mine. 
Truth, warmed and colored by beauty, 
Linking the Is to the Was, 
And calling them both to the Will Be. 

You are the lordling of thought; 
Yours is the kingdom of knowledge; 
Yours is the power to pierce 
Through the shapes of dull matter to 

Reason. 
Yours is the conqueror's might 
To chain in submission gross nature. 
Yours to explore the dark realms 
Of law-submerged types of the seem- 
ing. 

What means the heat to the light. 
What means the good to the truthful, 
What means the spirit to form, 
What means the impulse to action, 
What means emotion to thought. 
What means the south, to the north 

pole, 
All that mean I to you, Man, 
We are of primeval oneness. 



Cleave to me, Man, we are twain, 
Soul-compassed halves of one circle. 
Let not brute instinct prevail 
To stir up the hell-strife between us. 
On up the mountains sublime 
Let climb through Today's dusky twi- 
light. 
Fronting the sun hand in hand, 
Let us welcome the birth of Tomor- 
row. 



The Three Angels 

» JT OU seem to be quite restless, 
J^ dear, tonight. 

Are you not well, my darling? 
Are you ill?" 
**No, no, my dear. I'm thinking, that 
is all; 
Press your sweet face on pillow and 
be still." 
And, as she breathes kind draughts of 
soothing sleep, 
I turn my heart to Heaven and softly 

pray, 
"God keep, God keep my child-like, 

faithful wife. 
And make me worthy of her love this 
day." 

And, in my prayer, my gentle mother 
comes, 
From pleading at the Throne for her 
dear boy. 
And strokes me with her tender, loving 
hands. 
And transmutes care to sweet celes- 
tial joy. 
And then, in holy rapture at her touch, 
I kiss with reverent lips her fore- 
head white, 
And ask my God that He may bless the 
soul 



Of her, whose presence blesses me 
tonight. 

And then there comes a dreamland 
sigh from her, 
Whose cherub face brings heaven to 
my eyes, 
Whose girlish prattle loosens cords of 

love, 
Whose faith in "daddy" makes his dul- 
ness wise, 
And, as she nestles in her little bed, 
I breathe a fond petition for my 
child: 
"Forever guard thy precious gift, O 
God; 
Lead her by gentle paths to pastures 
mild." 

And now the dawn creeps softly up the 
sky. 
I lie and muse upon the joy in me, 
And wonder at the disbelief of men 
In angels, since my life is blessed by 
three. 
And soon sweet Sleep comes with her 
fond embrace; 
I turn to her in ecstacy of bliss. 
What glories must the gates of heaven 
enclose, 
When earth can yield such happiness 
as this! 



To a Flower Blooming 

on the Battlefield 

of France 

BLOOM forth, sweet flower, thou 
must never fear 

The roar of belching steel, 
which fills the air. 

God bids thee speak, in language wise 
and clear. 

The tender message of His loving 
care. 

By nature's paths thou earnest from on 
high 

To greet war's chaos with thy 
beauty's grace. 

And bring to earth-lost man's awaken- 
ing eye 

A gleam of light from the dear 
Father's face. 



